


the thanks that never comes

by thunderylee



Category: Joker: Yurusarezaru Sousakan, Kurosagi - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Universe, Crossover, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12650337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: An eye for an eye, a screw for a screw.





	the thanks that never comes

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck.

If there’s one thing Kurosaki is good at, it’s stalking. He’s had a lot of experience in it, dressing up in disguises and hiding in inconspicuous places to spy on his prey. It helps that most of them are stupid and oblivious, but that’s no reason to slack on security. Often it’s not the swindlers who pose the biggest threat, anyway.

Kurosaki’s first thought is that this guy is most definitely doing it wrong. Out in the open, the noises of his victim struggling against the wire fence piercing through the otherwise silent night. The area may be abandoned, but sound carries. Even if Kurosaki hadn’t happened to be out for a stroll, it would have called his attention along with the victim’s pleas.

Just about the only smart thing this guy did was wait until it was dark for execution.

And execution is what it is, Kurosaki’s eyes widening as a steady revolver is raised at the scrambling old man on the ground. The gunman’s stance is unwavering, his arm straight out in front of him, gun pointed straight with no hesitance. A defined _click_ of the safety and the executioner stands straight, the dim light from the nearby streetlamp illuminating his face and casting shadows on sharp features and narrowed eyes that show nothing but determination.

Kurosaki stands rooted to his spot as the shot is fired, effectively hitting the victim right between the eyes. It’s not by any means quiet, but the silence that follows is deafening, a wisp of smoke visible in the cool night air as the gunman lowers his weapon to the side.

_This_ , Kurosaki thinks to himself, his inner monologue drowned out by the rapid beat of his heart, _is exactly why I’m not a cop_.

It’s a credit to how jaded he’s become that he just turns and continues on his way, masking the sounds of his footsteps like always.

*

Kurosaki is no stranger to trauma. After seeing his family brutally murdered with his own eyes at a young age, he’s completely desensitized to emotional concepts like guilt and sympathy. All that courses through his veins now is revenge, sometimes irritation if his nosy neighbor tries hard enough.

Arousal isn’t completely foreign to him – he _is_ only a man – but it’s never been quite like this before. Picking up a nameless, faceless slut in a seedy bar and fucking one or more of her holes until he comes is much different than imagining that face behind his eyes, that expression of supreme conviction as he just takes someone’s life like it’s nothing.

If he were thinking clearly, Kurosaki would see the relevance for what it is, but his hand is already shoving down the front of his pants and skewing his judgment. At least he’s alone in his apartment, sprawled out on his mattress where he had been attempting to clear his mind before succumbing to sleep. The more he tugs on his hardening erection, the hotter he gets, until finally the gunshot resounds in his mind and he’s coming onto his own stomach, a low groan fading off into nothing as the reality of what he just did crashes down in full force.

But not even getting off to a murder can keep him from sleeping peacefully, and in the morning he feels marginally better when he opens the paper and sees the victim’s face as the latest homicidal rapist caught by the local investigators’ unit.

What makes him pause with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth is the picture of the forensics expert.

*

Officer Kudo Kenji is a saint on paper. Continuous service on the force, above-average marks in both university and the police academy, a year or so older than Kurosaki. Single, no family, lives alone in a one-room studio with no personality – although, to be fair, he’s hardly ever there.

It’s quite difficult to stalk someone who never leaves the station when you’re basically wanted by the police. After a few days Kurosaki is about to let it go, losing interest in what was appearing to be a one shot wonder, but then he nearly walks into the headlights that shine on Kudo’s latest endeavor at capital punishment.

This time it’s in the middle of the street. An unused road, especially at this time of the night, but anyone could be walking by. It’s actually the path back to Kurosaki’s neighborhood from the river, where he’d been absently skipping stones while plotting the demise of his next red swindler.

At this angle, he can see them both clearly. He doesn’t need to wait until morning to learn who this victim is – his face has been all over the news for weeks. He’d just gotten his case dismissed on a technicality and the entire city was in an uproar over it. Legality or not, he’d killed two people and gotten away with it.

And Kudo is about to execute him. To take justice into his own hands, Kurosaki quickly figures out. He can understand this more than anyone – the dissatisfaction with authorities and the burning desire to make things right. Up until this moment, Kurosaki wouldn’t have believed there to be an excuse for murder other than self-defense.

But now he sees. The two of them, they’re not that different.

Kudo’s eyes get unnaturally dark just before he pulls the trigger, his Adam’s apple jerking in one lone action of remorse. A bullet going through someone’s head is probably much more gruesome from this vantage point, but Kurosaki sees only Kudo, the even rise and fall of his chest as he watches the victim keel over. It doesn’t seem at all sadistic, just patiently waiting for the body to be still.

His curiosity getting the best of him, Kurosaki stays for the encore. It’s peculiar how carefully Kudo bags up his victim, like his comfort matters _now_. If Kurosaki were to off someone, he certainly wouldn’t take the time to do anything more than necessary to dispose of the evidence. Then again, a forensics expert would be the last person to leave behind anything incriminating.

It’s kind of genius, really. Kurosaki studies him as he carries the bag to the trunk of his car, wondering what kind of person he is. In the daylight, all Kurosaki witnessed was Kudo hunched over his work or harassing his female colleague, grinning widely if not a bit creepily. A typical sleazy guy, Kurosaki notes. Leaving the office long enough for drinks with a detective, the soft-spoken one with the platypus face. Wearing awful aloha shirts like it’s his uniform.

Kurosaki wonders if they would get along. He doesn’t have any friends because no one has ever understood the level of his rage, his uncontrollable urge for vengeance. Kudo may kill people but it’s deserved, just like Kurosaki swindles the swindlers who take advantage of others. One is more illegal than the other, even immoral, but Kurosaki can’t find it in himself to disapprove.

Morality is subjective, anyway.

He’s in high spirits as he goes home, undisturbed by this unfamiliar feeling of content. It’s comforting to know he’s not the only one fighting for justice in a crooked system full of corruption and greed.

The orgasms are nice, too.

*

It doesn’t take long for Kurosaki to plan out Kudo’s courses of action based on local murder trial verdicts. Crime is at an all-time high, and subsequently so is Kurosaki’s libido – after the first week, it feels like his body is _craving_ Kudo’s executions, the power he exerts by playing God.

“You look happier,” that girl next door, Yoshi-something, tells him one morning. “Did you meet someone?”

He doesn’t acknowledge her, not that he would give her the decency of a response even if she wasn’t right on the nose. Today, he’s going to check out the bar Kudo frequents to see if he can learn anything else about this small-framed killer.

It’s like Kudo is a victim of his own, the way Kurosaki strives to find out anything he possibly can about him. Only he doesn’t plan on using it to bring him down; if Kurosaki’s intentions were ill, he would have made an anonymous tip to the police a long time ago. No, he wants to gauge Kudo’s character, aside from the whole divine justice thing.

To see if he could be an ally.

Kurosaki slumps into a booth with his newspaper and a low-riding fedora, sipping his coffee while listening to the chatter of cops in their off-time. Kudo has a surprisingly low voice, raspy and even without being monotone, and Kurosaki now sees why he never hears what Kudo says to any of his victims. Often he will see those thick lips part enough for words to come out, but Kurosaki doesn’t know what they are.

Spying is second nature to Kurosaki, who intently watches an entire exchange between Kudo and an older officer undetected. He doesn’t even flinch when the other cop grabs Kudo by the collar of his ugly aloha shirt and shoves him up against the bar, eyes narrowing in rage as he hisses something that Kurosaki can’t hear.

He can, however, see the fear in Kudo’s eyes, quickly turning to anger and resentment the second he’s released. All at once Kurosaki understands why Kudo does what he does – for the power he’s not getting anywhere else. It’s not just about making his own verdict, at least not for the fairness of it.

It all just draws Kudo to him more.

A brief slip, the first in a very long time, and Kudo catches his eye above the unread newspaper. Not even a second later they both avert their gazes, each one embarrassed for his own reason, and Kurosaki feels a sharp heat spread through his body like wildfire.

Miraculously he makes it another twenty minutes before nonchalantly taking his leave, and it takes everything in his power to keep his hands off of himself until he’s safely behind closed doors. Now he has a voice to go with that face, a calm yet authoritative tone, and Kurosaki does things behind his eyes that he would never admit to thinking about in reality.

If he deludes his senses enough, he can almost feel the cool metal digging into his neck.

*

He should be tired of it by now, but each execution is more fascinating than the next. Kurosaki considers renting a car to follow Kudo, seeing for himself what he does with the bodies he so carefully wraps and carries to the trunk of his own car. But regardless of any added benefits, namely being hidden by tinted windows while giving into his own perversion, Kurosaki knows that it would just make it easier for him to get caught.

And then he gets caught anyway.

It’s his own fault for getting comfortable, for assuming that Kudo just drives off, for not looking behind him as he walks away stealthily as usual. Even if he’d looked down at the ground, he would have noticed a shadow creeping up on him, much larger than the person casting it due to the placement of the flickering streetlight.

The cylindrical object firmly pushing against his scalp stops him in his tracks. It’s the barrel of the gun, Kudo’s gun, the same one he’d just used to uphold justice, still warm at the tip. Kurosaki is frozen where he stands but his body is less than cold; the exact opposite, even, as his nerves come alive and he’s flooded with _feeling_. Anticipation, fear, need – it all comes rushing through him so fast that he nearly passes out, but the weight on his head keeps him grounded.

“Who are you,” that voice hisses, all statement and no question.

Kurosaki says nothing, can’t find his voice to speak. He stares unseeingly at the row of hedges in front of him, the scenery fading to nothing in the distance as Kudo drags the tip of his gun down the side of Kurosaki’s skull.

“You a _cop_?” Kudo spits, saying the word like it’s a bad taste in his mouth.

Kurosaki sucks in a breath, the air audibly filling his lungs as he realizes he hasn’t breathed this entire time. “No, but you are.”

Silence, then the gun shakes with what Kurosaki learns is laughter as it gradually sounds below his ear. A sinister chuckle, then a brief pause when the gun slides along his hairline to the top of his spine, eliciting a very sharp shiver.

Kudo scoffs, and Kurosaki closes his eyes in preparation for the worst. Not getting shot – being mocked. He would rather be shot than show weakness, which is everything his body is putting on display for this complete stranger.

What he doesn’t expect is a firm torso pressed against his back, warm muscles blending into his as Kudo presses closer and rests his free hand on Kurosaki’s hip. He can feel Kudo’s breath on the back of his neck, hot and harsh, and the next chuckle goes right down his spine.

Kurosaki isn’t aware that he’s biting his lip until he nearly punctures it when Kudo slides a hand around his waist to go straight for the rapidly forming bulge in his pants. His head naturally falls back, finding Kudo’s to lean against, and the gun slips down to his throat.

“Do you like what you see?” Kudo asks needlessly, massaging Kurosaki’s erection through the thin material as his voice vibrates Kurosaki’s skin. “Do you get off to watching me execute criminals?”

Kurosaki couldn’t answer if he wanted to, choking on a moan as the gun drops to his waist. He jumps when the metal is pressed along his side, under his shirt, continuing around to the front and across his sculptured abs.

“Such a freak,” Kudo comments, but somehow it sounds affectionate. “I was just going to scare you, but now I think I’ll make you earn your freedom.”

Another squeeze and Kurosaki can’t stop this one, a pitiful whine that has his skin warm with shame as his body rocks up into Kudo’s touch. But Kudo doesn’t chide him, just presses closer, and Kurosaki relaxes when he feels a hardness rubbing against his ass.

Then it disappears, and Kurosaki is left disorientated until he feels a pull on his wrist. Blindly he’s led across the pavement, their shoes making off-beat noises until his back hits the side of Kudo’s car and Kudo is wrestling with the back door. Once he wrenches the door open, Kurosaki is shoved down onto the soft upholstery, the defined slam of the door closing behind them as Kudo crawls on top of him.

Kurosaki wants to mention the body in the trunk, but there’s still a gun digging into his gut. Kudo straddles his lap and sits up as much as he can, his head hitting the roof of the car as he pushes up Kurosaki’s shirt with his weapon. It’s dark but Kurosaki can see his features, the minimal light shining on Kudo’s face up close and the way he’s sucking his bottom lip in thought.

It’s ironic how Kudo touches him with the gun, watching from above like trailing the metal across Kurosaki’s chest is mesmerizing. Kurosaki’s breathing quickens, his chest visibly rising and falling as Kudo slides the gun straight up to his throat, then back down to circle his pecs. The tip catches on a nipple and a moan tears through Kurosaki, echoing throughout the interior of the car and his own head as his hips buck upwards in search of friction.

Kudo obliges, leaning down to grind against him, and Kurosaki’s next noise is grateful. Kudo’s body covers his and lips press just under the back of his jaw, kissing lazily while Kurosaki’s hands stay dormant at his sides. He wants to move them, wants to touch Kudo, grip firmly onto Kudo’s hips while rocking against him, but his control is hindered by the gun now returned to his head.

“Take your pants off,” Kudo’s soft voice directs. “Put this on your fingers and prepare yourself.”

Kurosaki’s hands were already on his belt before Kudo even finished the first order, but he hesitates at the second part. Kudo doesn’t notice at first, too busy reaching into his pocket and pressing a tube into Kurosaki’s lax palm, then the gun slides pointedly down Kurosaki’s side.

“Either you do it, or I will.”

The barrel slipping past his waistband makes it clear that Kudo wouldn’t be using his hands.

Kurosaki snatches the tube with more irritation than one should have at gunpoint, but Kudo is more focused on him shoving his pants down enough to step out of one leg, then lifting his knees until they make contact with Kudo’s elbows. He starts to feel anxious, the initial thrill long gone, but Kudo reaches down to stroke his bare cock and Kurosaki thrusts up in tandem, his body distracted enough to sneak his fingers between his own legs.

He’s surprised at how easy it is, probably because he’s the one doing it to himself and there’s no element of surprise. Kudo’s strangely supportive, whispering encouraging noises into his collarbone as he continues to squeeze him from base to tip, slow enough to make him crave it but fast enough to keep his focus off the rest.

Kurosaki is two fingers deep before he knows it, pushing up against his own touch involuntarily as it starts to feel good. Kudo pushes his own pants down and grabs back the lube, fumbling with something that is unmistakably a condom before coating his length and groaning low enough to vibrate against Kurosaki’s skin. The sound has Kurosaki fingering himself harder and shuddering when he hits something deep inside, stretches to hit it again and slips in a third finger because the cock resting against his hip is going to need the extra room.

“Now.”

Kurosaki is the one who says it and Kudo doesn’t argue, just pulls Kurosaki’s wrist up and over his head as he slowly presses into him. It burns and Kurosaki emits a silent cry, softened by Kudo’s thumb on his pulse point, rubbing soothingly. His other hand holds the gun to the fleshy part of his side like an afterthought, or more like it’s dangling from one finger while the rest of his grasp is on Kurosaki’s hip, pulling him toward him with each thrust forward.

The rhythmic motions of their sex is almost hypnotic, seeming to fuck his mind as well as his body as Kudo buries himself inside him over and over. Kurosaki forgets about the gun, forgets about the body in the trunk, forgets about the backseat of the car with his man – this _murderer_ – he doesn’t even know and just _feels_.

It’s such a foreign sensation that it seems unreal, particularly when Kudo hisses, “Get yourself off,” and Kurosaki’s hand is on his own cock before he even processes the thought. It feels even better than when he usually does it himself, ironically thinking of the man who is pounding into him harder to push though the sudden tightening.

Kurosaki feels it coming, fists the head of his cock and hopes it’s okay, hears Kudo’s noises rise in pitch as his tension accumulates and abruptly leaves him in the form of one intense, toe-curling orgasm. In the haze of his high, he feels Kudo shudder and fall still on top of him, the gun sliding to the floorboards as they collapse into a pile of breathless, sweaty limbs.

Then Kudo leans up, rummages for something while Kurosaki stretches out his legs, opening his eyes in time to stare down the barrel of the weapon that had just seduced him.

“Tomorrow won’t come for you,” Kudo mutters, and pulls the trigger.

> bonus

“Thank you, as always,” Kurosaki says as casually as ever, and the conniving bitch shrieks every curse word in the book at him as the officers take her away.

He watches the patrol car drive off in mild appreciation. Ever since he woke up tranquilized at Kudo’s place and learned the truth behind their underground operation, he’s had a passing respect for the police.

He still doesn’t want to work for them, though. If only because he has to take a cold shower every time he sees a flash of gun. Kudo finds it amusing, mostly arousing, periodically checking out a real revolver from the station and showing up at Kurosaki’s place unannounced.

Kurosaki doesn’t ask Kudo about the scars on his back and Kudo doesn’t ask him about his vendetta against swindlers. They understand each other enough to coexist together, both grateful for the other whom they can be themselves around, whether they’re just sitting around doing normal guy things, exploring their darker sides, or ridding the world of filth.

The two of them, they’re not that different.


End file.
